


A Hand To Hold

by Impala_Dreamer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comforting Dean, Gen, agnsty mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25902640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Dreamer/pseuds/Impala_Dreamer
Summary: ~Sometimes, you just need someone to be there for you.~
Kudos: 8





	A Hand To Hold

The floor was cold beneath your bare feet, the hallway vents refusing to carry the warm air down to the bottom. A thin layer of warmth tickled your ankles, but below was frozen; toes and heels patting the tile as you slipped towards his door.

The portal was open a tiny bit and pale light from the bedside lamp washed out into the dark hall. Dean was awake, which was both good and bad, you figured. It was nearing two in the morning, and if he was up, it was for the same reason that you were.

Your fingers pushed through the gap and curled around the old wood. “Dean?” Your whisper was soft but he heard you, breaking the silence of night.

“Y/N? What’s up?”

Pushing the door open a little further, you shoved your face through, lingering, not wanting to bother him. “Can’t sleep?” you asked, ignoring his question for another. 

“Are we just gonna keep answering questions with questions or…?” He smirked and ran a hand through his hair, tired but wide awake.

“You busy?”

He laughed gently. “Will you get in here?”

The door caught as you closed it behind you, stepping fully inside. Dean was pushed up against his headboard, a bottle of Jack nearly empty beside the lamp. He smiled as you walked in, but he was just as hurt as you were, just as tired, helpless.

Dean patted the bed next to him, calling you over. “What’s going on?” His eyes caught yours and you nearly broke, hating yourself for being so weak. 

“Just can’t stop thinking,” you confessed with a sigh. “Lots and lots of thinking.” The bed dipped beneath you, foam rising around your backside as you took the space to Dean’s left.

He sighed and nodded, looking down at the sheets. “Yeah, I hear ya. Anything good?”

“No,” you laughed. “No. Very not good. Lots of nasty voices.”

Almost in tandem, you both crossed your arms and waded through the sadness together.

“I just…”

Dean lifted his head as you spoke and your words faded. There wasn’t anything you could say that he hadn’t heard or felt a hundred times before, so what was the point? It was just empty air, saying the same things over and over. ‘I’m not OK.’ ‘I feel like shit.’ ‘I want to be dead.’ ‘I can’t handle the guilt.’ ‘I should do more.’ ‘I can’t make it stop.’

And you knew what he’d say. You could almost hear the pep talk in your head: ‘You can’t let this stuff get to you. You’re doing good out there. Sometimes shit happens and we can’t stop it, but you gotta keep fighting because that’s what we do.’

And he’d be right, and you’d cry a little and then maybe slink back off to bed to cry a lot. But you didn’t want that tonight. Tonight, you just wanted a warm body next to you that understood, that could feel what you felt, that knew how much it hurt.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” you said finally.

“Me either.”

His arms broke apart and he dropped a soft hand to your thigh, palm up, waiting for yours. You looked down, staring at it as if it were an alien appendage, your brain buzzing, ears ringing. With a sigh, you gave him your hand, and his big fingers curled tightly around you.

He didn’t say a word, simply lifted your hand to his lips and left a sweet kiss behind.

“But we can, you know,” he whispered. “If you need to.”

“Can we…can we just lay here for a while?” you asked instead, looking up with freshly wet eyes.

He smiled gently and nodded, letting go of your hand to open his arms to you.

It felt so good to be tucked under his wing; strong arms warm, heart steadfast and loud against your ear. His cheek found a comfortable spot atop your head, and there you stayed, arms around each other, breaths heavy in the dim light.

Talking was great. Getting it out, letting the demons loose into the air to be swatted away by encouraging words from a friend, but sometimes all you really needed was familiar silence and a hand to hold.


End file.
